For a Dreamer
by Forkhead
Summary: An unknown narrator tells of the newsies's dreams: "We all had dreams, every one of us." No OCs. No slash. One-shot. Please read and review!


**Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies, or anyone in this story.**

**A/N: Oi. I don't know, it needed to go up. **

**You can decide who the narrator is. I know who I think it is, but it can be whoever you want.****  
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**Oh, and just in case: I'm not saying being mixed is weird or bad, I'm just saying that it may have been hard for someone in 1899.**

**Please read and review!  
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We all had dreams, every one of us.

Specs dreamed of marrying Medda. Bummlets dreamed of moving back to Europe. Dutchy dreamed of going to school.

Swifty's dream was the craziest. A true dreamer's dream. He'd whisper it to only a few. He'd hunch his shoulder and with a drawn look, he'd choke out: "I wish I were whole. I wish I could be complete. Not half Chinese and half Irish, not stuck in the middle and being torn in half."

We'd mutter, we'd put our hand on his shoulder, and we'd cringe. It was a dream we all knew he'd never reach.

It was even crazier than Spot's dream: Opening housing for street kids.

Mush dreamed of finding love. He searched for it actively, looking every possible place to find it. He begged love from everyone, he needed it so much. He had to have someone there to tell him how much he meant, but he still hadn't found the love he wanted.

We all dreamed, but it was Cowboy's dreams we relied on. We didn't talk about our dreams the way Jack Kelly, leader of the Manhattan newsies, could. He made his dreams fly. His dreams were fantastic and hopeful and full of life and possibility; not just surviving, but thriving. Real living. He was the dreamer of dreams that were larger than life, but the way he held them out, they felt attainable to every last one of us. We all fed off it. We listened to his stories. We watched him read letters from his father which he told us were full of tales of his parents' trek for finding the perfect ranch.

It was lies. David exposed his lies. His father was in jail, not out west. But maybe, we all thought, it wasn't lies, but dreams. Fantastic dreams. He was the dreamer.

Until after the strike.

He had won. He had beat the oppression that had held all of us down, even if it was for one glimmering moment. It was the fulfillment of our dreams. It was all we hoped for. Then Jack came back. He didn't go to Santa Fe, despite his chance. He came back to the city and put his cowboy hat on Les. He let it stay there the rest of the day, and when Les offered it back, Jack let him keep it.

The dreamer died.

A new Jack set in, little by little. He stopped dreaming of leaving and started dreaming about staying. He dreamed of Sarah and getting married. He dreamed of mediocre. Dull dreams that lay like stones in our hearts, weighing us down and sinking our spirits. They were dreams that anyone could think up. They were dreams we all had, secretly, marriage and steady work. But they were dreams that didn't belong in Jack's heart. Without his dreams, he was just another newsie.

A newsie like Skittery, who dreamed of settling down and getting married, taking Tumbler away from the streets if he could. Or a newsie like Kid Blink, who dreamed of a certain girl who worked at the flower shop. Or even Itey, who planned on living in Queens and getting married to a girl from his old neighborhood.

We didn't realize how far he'd really gone until Kloppman came in with Jack's once red bandanna in his hands, "Hey, uh, Cowboy, I found this in the trash bin." He held the sweat stained, graying cloth out.

"Oh, thanks Klopp. I knew it was there. I threw it out." Jack shrugged.

"You threw it out?" Racetrack cried leaning into his face, "Why would you throw it out?"

"Does your life depend on knowin' or somethin'?" Jack said making a face at Race and shoving his friend away, "It was old, and I couldn't really get it clean anyway. It was startin' to smell worse than you."

Race hit the back of Jack's head, and we laughed.

We were all thinking it: Jack had changed. We all carried things with us that were old, past their prime, and foul smelling. They were our pasts, our presents, our futures. They were part of us. Him throwing it away was saying he was better. Beyond dreamer.

The leader of Manhattan had died. Cowboy had died. Jack Kelly had died. All that was left, was one Francis Sullivan.

He started dreaming the dreams David Jacobs had. The kind of dreams that were unattainable unless you had an in, brains, and good timing. Things we didn't have, like him and David. Santa Fe, though crazy and wild, had always felt reachable. Any bum can hop a train and ride off to a place where all that matters is that you're tough, strong, and quick. These were the things we, the newsies, the street rats, had ten times over.

Stability, family, love. These were things we couldn't reach.

David Jacobs could dream, too. But his dreams wore on us, reminding us of all we couldn't have. He had dreams of being a newspaper man, a big shot. He had gotten a job at the Sun as an errand boy, Denton had gotten him the job. The newsies hardly saw David, but we all heard Jack bragging about him. It was almost like he had the job, not David.

"David said that in a few years, if he works hard enough, he could be a writer." Jack was saying one night, "And that girl that David was talking about the other night? They been talking for a long time, and their dads is talking now, and they gonna get 'em married in a few years! Can you believe it?

"But," He grinned, "They wanna get Sarah married first."

We all hooped and grinned and slapped his shoulder. Rejoicing in one of his dreams so close at hand, but inside we all knew that he was leaving us. Dying a little more with every step closer to that life, and farther away from us. Away from the dreams we had all clung to like anchors.

Crutchy dreamed; he dreamed of throwing his crutch into the river and letting it float away. Snitch dreamed of forgetting his past and letting his memories float away on the river.

Racetrack had dreams, too. He was going to ride the horses at the track. He was going to take care of the horses. He was going to sell the tickets for the horses. He was going to work there anyway he could; that was his dream. It was attainable and simple, not far reaching. It was the perfect dream for a newsie. But it wasn't a dream we could all listen to at night and picture ourselves there, larger than life.

That's why we needed Jack and his dreams. Dreams of winning a strike, dreams of being free, dreams of living away from the city. Now he was going to get a job at the factory Mr. Jacobs worked at. Jack was going to sell for another month of so before he moved on to his job. He now had dreams of working in a tight building stuffed into the city, crammed with a hundred other sweaty bodies piddling away his time.

We all stared at him when he told us.

"I'll work for a little while on the assembly, but I'm bright. And Mr. Jacobs'll be lookin' after me. He'll want his little girl's beau in a good position." He grinned, "I'll reach the top in no time!"

He cheered, lying to him, to ourselves, knowing it would never work out. Mr. Jacobs had no pull there, and Jack would never amount to anything there. But the little ones believed it would work.

They had dreams too, everyone of them. Huge dreams of love and family and happiness and adventure. We didn't dream like that. Not the ones who've been around for so long. We knew better than to hope for something to change.

We didn't dream like Tumbler, who dreamed of sailing the world's oceans as the captain of a crew, discovering new places and learning new languages. We didn't dream like Boots who wanted to find his parents again, and were sure they'd have changed. We didn't dream like Snipeshooter, who wanted to save up enough money to bring his mother and sisters to America, but only after he had bought himself a nice house.

I had dreams, once, of things like these. Love. Adventure. Family.

But I've been smart and I let them die. Now, I dream only of survival. I dream of making it through the winter. I dream that I won't watch anyone starve or freeze to death this year. I dream that I won't have to bury a friend only after we've stripped him of his much needed clothes. I dream that one day, I'll be free from the stench of sweat and ink. I dream bigger now than ever, because what I dream for it something so crazy, that it puts all other dreams to shame.

I dream of hope.

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**A/N: Review please! **^-^


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